


Cauterized Rag Doll

by demizorua



Category: HLVRAI - Fandom, Half-Life VR But The AI Is Self Aware
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Internal Monologue, and is being controlled by the player, but is still Aware, but not for. a while, eventually, smthn inspired by the idea that gordon is an ai also
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:42:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25231066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demizorua/pseuds/demizorua
Summary: An eye for an eyeThat's how the game worksI'm losing my autonomyA mutilated part of me---And I defy the way the game worksBetween you and meIt's only getting worse
Comments: 33
Kudos: 104





	1. Pulling Strings

**Author's Note:**

> this is an impulsive, kinda character-introspection-focused thing inspired by some convos i had on discord with [@security-guard-benny](https://security-guard-benny.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! this'll be updated kinda sporadically, but uhh do expect updates!
> 
> title + description + chapter titles all from the song Amygdala's Rag Doll by GHOST!

Gordon didn't realize anything was wrong at first.

Riding the tram to work was such an integrated part of his daily routine that Gordon already didn't devote that much brainpower to it under normal circumstances. He didn't feel the need to question the fogginess of his mind, instead just attributing the lapses in his memory to his general exhaustion. He was late for work, after all, some tiredness was to be expected.

No, Gordon didn't notice anything strange until he reached the first security checkpoint.

There was something… strange about one of the guards. Well — not really? It wasn't clear. He seemed normal enough, but there was something… _off_ about them. Gordon couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something about them that he couldn't fully ignore.

"hey."

Gordon stopped in his tracks, turning back towards the guard in question. They were standing directly behind him, and Gordon noticed a small smirk on their face as they stared up at him. Something about their half-lidded eyes sparked something in the back of his head, but Gordon couldn't seem to catch the feeling in full — it would dart away the moment he tried to identify it.

"can i see your… passport?"

_What?_

The guard continued to stare at Gordon, something expectant in their blank expression. Gordon frowned gently, staring back at the guard. He watched as their face fell, the building confusion in their eyes mirroring his own. Why did that question make him feel so weird?

Belatedly, Gordon realized that he'd been having a full conversation with the guard while he was lost in thought. That struck him as a little strange; Gordon had never been the most talkative person, and most conversations tended to take up the majority of his brainpower. It seemed that he'd been doing just fine without his realizing, though — if anything he was talking _more_ than he usually did.

Then the guard started to sing.

The sound was haunting, an operatic tone accompanying the flurry of blue lights that escaped the guard's mouth. Something in him sparked at that, but Gordon couldn't hold onto it — it flickered away like a dying flame the moment he felt it appear.

Gordon's mind ground to a screeching halt at the tone, and he could only watch as the guard turned to look back at him, an apprehensive look in their eyes. Gordon would almost call it hopeful if that made any semblance of sense given the circumstances.

"What was that? What the fuck — what was that!?"

Gordon felt his blood run cold as his own voice reached his ears.

Eyes widening, Gordon could only listen as his own voice continued to ramble. Idly, he registered that his mouth was moving, but the words that came out were not his own, despite being drenched in his voice. Gordon saw a brief flicker of some emotion in the guard's eyes, but it was gone before he could identify it, replaced with blank disinterest as the guard bantered with him — bantered with Gordon's _voice._

Not with Gordon.

Gordon wasn't especially fond of the world of conspiracy theories, considering himself a man of science. Things like ghosts, aliens, the paranormal — he had never believed a word of it. It just wasn't his nature to be so paranoid — there was always a logical explanation for any supposed paranormal activity.

If he couldn't experience something for himself, couldn't verify it with his own senses, then there was no reason to believe it.

As he argued — as his _body_ argued with the guard, Gordon desperately tried to keep his thoughts under control. His lungs felt sealed shut; he couldn't get enough oxygen, couldn't _breathe,_ and yet his breathing remained stilted and even. He tried to bring a gloved hand up to run through his hair, searching for some way to keep himself from panicking, but his muscles weren't cooperating with him. He couldn't move, he couldn't —

He was moving.

Gordon's panic only continued to increase as he turned to head down the hall. This was real — he could see his legs take step after step, could hear the heavy footsteps of the HEV suit on the tile floor, could _feel_ his muscles contract and extend as his legs carried him forward. Every ounce of logic in his brain is telling him that this is real, this is happening, but it can't be. It can't.

This can't be real, Gordon thought, as he walked down the hallway against his will, mouth moving all the while.

* * *

Gordon watched as he pressed the button on the control panel, the huge rotors shuddering and hissing as they began to spin. The acrid smell of smoke reached his nostrils, coaxing a sneeze to the forefront of his mind.

He watched as he turned back to the ladder, climbing down while shouting at the scientists in the balcony.

The guard was following him around the test chamber, face unreadable as he watched Gordon parade around the room. Gordon felt like the guard knew something, their gaze too piercing, too knowing. He wanted to say something, wanted to ask them what they knew, wanted to beg them to explain what was going on, but he said nothing.

Gordon watched as he shouted at the guard, words hostile and grating. His throat was beginning to ache from overuse, unused to being so loud for so long.

He had to sneeze.

Gordon tried again to speak, to use his own lungs, throat, muscles, grappled with the invisible force locking him away from his own body. He tried again and again and again — hell, he'd resorted to begging, pleading with the unknown force puppeting his body like a children's toy.

He heard himself yell something about a crystal.

As Gordon's hands came to rest on the test sample cart, a strong feeling of dread washed over him. Something was wrong — well, _clearly,_ but something was wrong with the test as well. Maybe if he wasn't so distracted by being a passenger in his own body, Gordon would be more concerned about the possible repercussions of such a dangerous test — you'll excuse him if he's a bit _preoccupied._

When the chamber erupted into an explosion of heat and green light, Gordon couldn't help but wonder if this was all some elaborate, Freaky Friday-esque nightmare. With any luck, he'd wake up on his shitty mattress, just in time to be late to work for real.

* * *

He still felt like he had to sneeze.

Gordon couldn't even make himself flinch as his hands brought the crowbar down on the head of what used to be his co-worker. Blood splattered on his face, but whoever was piloting his body didn't seem to care, not bothering to wipe off the disconcertingly warm fluid.

The body thief quickly got into an argument with Dr. Coomer, shouting about how they didn't have a murder tally. Gordon felt his stomach twist in disgust, bile rising in his throat at the corpse lingering in his periphery. Gordon could smell the rotting flesh surrounding them, could hear more of the horrid monstrosities scuttling around in the vents, could feel the blood trickling down his cheek.

At this point, he couldn't even tell if it was human or alien, and the very thought of that made him feel sick.

* * *

Gordon idly listened to whatever conversation his body was having with the others, not lucid enough to focus on the intricacies of the words spilling out of his empty husk. His voice echoed off of the locker room walls, sounding foreign and alien to his ears.

Maybe alien wasn't the best term for it.

He watched as he was puppeted into his own locker, gesturing to his sparse belongings as he shouted something about a passport over his shoulder.

Gordon _really_ wished he would stop yelling.

His body continued to talk, rambling about whatever nonsense his tormenter was concerned with, but something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. A small picture frame sat in the corner of his locker, the innocent smile of a young boy staring directly at him.

"That's my baby — I have a son," Gordon blurted out, memories of the young boy flooding back to him. "That's Joshua." He gently cradled the frame with his hand, eyes welling up with tears. Dr. Coomer said something from behind him, but Gordon didn't notice nor care to, too caught up in the memory of his son, _he has a son!_

"looks… uh… looks a bit shit," said the guard — Benrey, their name was Benrey, right? Blinking in confusion, the world suddenly faded back into Gordon's awareness, his arms locking up painfully.

The instant he realized he'd somehow regained control over himself it was wrenched out of his grip, leaving him feeling even more powerless than before. Gordon didn't even keep control over his eyes this time; he was left with nothing. He couldn't breathe, _why wasn't he breathing??_

Tears threatened to spill from his eyes, vision so blurred that Gordon couldn't see anything around him. He wanted so desperately to cry, to scream and sob and vent all the pain and anguish that had built up over the past few hours. There was nothing he could do, every ounce of control having been ripped away from him, and _god,_ it hurt _so much._

Absently, Gordon clung to the one thing he knew, trying to take stock of his surroundings. What happened, what happened, where is he, what is —

He's in Black Mesa. He works here. He's a theoretical physicist, probably. He went to work today for a big test. His entire being was consumed and hijacked by some mysterious, sadistic force that was now puppeting him through a literal hellscape of blood, gore, and horrifying Lovecraftian beasts.

He had regained control. How had he done that — the picture. He saw a picture, a photograph. Of a child. His child. His son.

Joshua.

Eventually, Gordon managed to breathe, managed to slowly calm his racing heart to an acceptable pace. The tears built up in his eyes refused to spill, instead lingering uncomfortably in his eyes until they dried up.

Gordon clung to what little he'd been able to reclaim from the monster he was held captive by. He has a son, a child, he remembers. The picture. The picture is real, he touched it, he _said his name, Joshua_ — it wasn't much, but it was more than he'd had before.

He's real, he's here, because he has a _son!_

When his vision eventually returned, Gordon noticed Benrey giving him a weird look out of the corner of his eye.

* * *

Benrey was dead.

Gordon stared at the guard's lifeless body, torso crushed by the indiscriminate weight of the fire door. Nobody else seemed concerned, not even his autonomous husk of a body, moving on with barely a second thought about their fallen comrade.

It made Gordon want to scream.

After all of this, after all the horrors and nightmares he's been through today, after being _paraded around like a puppet_ for hours on end, this is it. This is going to be what breaks him.

Gordon didn't even know why he was so torn up about this. Their other companions had seemingly died countless times over; the weights of their deaths had long since lost their sting. Hell, even Benrey had been resurrected a few times, reappearing with a teasing quip and that same empty stare.

Something about this time felt different, though. More final, more significant. And, sure enough, Benrey wasn't waiting for them just around the corner. There was no 'Sweet Voice' or demands for his passport, and no undefinable glances when the guard thought Gordon wasn't looking.

Just the sound of his own voice, so familiar and yet so horribly _wrong_ all at once.

Gordon hardly paid any attention to the rest of the day, fading in and out of consciousness as gunshots and otherworldly howls echoed around him. He distanced himself from the horrible actions of his body; he still had to live through them, but it wasn't his fault. He didn't kill that scientist, the weirdo wearing his skin did.

At least, that's what he told himself, clinging to the thought like a mantra as his torturer finally saw fit to give him and the team a rest. As his body laid down, curling up against a wall, Gordon noticed a strange darkness creeping at the edges of his vision. Panic began to well up in his chest, his usual curiosity having been smothered by the horrors he'd been forced through.

Soon the darkness was all he could see; an endless void that went on as far as the eye could see. Or maybe he was in a small, cramped box — the omnipresent blackness distorted the space in an extremely disorienting way. Gordon wondered if this is what it was like to be blind, as his mind grappled for something to ground itself with.

His desire for stimuli was abruptly granted in the worst sense possible as an agonizing feeling overtook Gordon's body. It felt like his body was being shredded to pieces, the tearing feeling starting at the base of his legs and slowly, painfully moving up the rest of his body.

Gordon wanted to scream, to cry out in agony, to express the pain consuming him, but he was still rendered immobile. He felt his body be ripped apart, minuscule piece by piece, and could only sit helplessly and stare into the nothingness surrounding him.

Finally, mercifully, the sensation ended, leaving Gordon alone in the void. Further tears welled up in eyes, and Gordon felt them roll down a face that did not exist as he sobbed, purely and openly. Gordon cried, wailed as loud as he could, hoping that someone, anyone would hear his despair.

The void was silent, Gordon's sounds of pain and misery echoing throughout the neverending emptiness.

A harsh reminder that he was alone.


	2. Clusters of Holes

Gordon's stomach turned as he felt the soldier's skull give with a sickening _crunch,_ the force of the crowbar sending the man tumbling to the ground before he even knew what hit him. His companion was soon to follow, a well-timed bullet to the cranium being all the hijacker needed to snuff out yet another human life.

It was interesting, really, from a psychological point of view; how Gordon had been forced to swim through all manner of radioactive sludge and sewage, been made to ingest unsanitary alien sludge, been beaten and battered beyond the point where a normal person would have died — and yet each and every life that was ended by his hands made him feel sicker than all of the events of the day combined. It probably said something about his morality, or a twisted sense of self-sacrifice.

Not that Gordon would have any idea, regardless. He's pretty sure he's a physicist, not a psychologist.

As he watched himself wipe blood and gore off of the unconventional weapon, Gordon caught a brief glimpse of dull blue on the other side of the tracks, and he felt like his heart jumped — from excitement or dread, he wasn't sure. Sure enough, the person wearing his face soon noticed the security guard, marching over to them with the crowbar brandished threateningly, already shouting combative insults.

Gordon always felt… funny, whenever Benrey would reappear. Ever since their supposed death the previous day, Gordon had harboured mixed feelings towards the guard, unable to identify what was making his breath catch in his throat at the sight of them. It didn't feel like the raw animosity his pilot seemed to carry for them, but it certainly wasn't anything close to fondness or relief, either.

Whatever it was, Gordon wasn't quite sure how to take it, and he always found himself more emotionally vulnerable whenever the guard was around.

* * *

_" **There's nothing out there.** "_

Gordon was startled by the rawness of Dr. Coomer's statement, the elder scientist's voice cracking slightly as he stared at Gordon with a distant look in his eyes. His captor didn't seem to know how to take the doctor's sudden bout of cryptic nihilism, floundering for words in a way they so often did when they weren't catapulting Gordon's body into danger after danger.

Something about the old man's expression struck a chord with Gordon, though.

As his body quickly moved on, rushing after Dr. Bubby with some vague statement about committing more slaughter, Gordon couldn't get Coomer's words out of his head. The sheer hopelessness in the older man's tone was familiar to him; Gordon imagined his own voice would now sound much the same, if he could force it to obey him.

Gordon found himself watching Dr. Coomer for the brief amount of action that followed, not caring about the nonsense spouted by his voice or other companions. The older man had appeared to immediately bounce back after witnessing whatever existential terror awaited beyond the walls of Black Mesa, cutting himself off with a cheerful "Hello, Gordon!" and acting as if all was well.

Despite this, the man wasn't quite the same afterwards.

It was just little things — things Gordon wouldn't have noticed if he had been focused on the situation they were in. Sitting backseat in his own head, however, gave him plenty of time to observe his elderly friend. A cryptic statement here, dead-eyed stare there, and Gordon could confidently say that something had changed about his friend.

(Were they friends? He thinks he had talked to Coomer before; he'd greeted the elderly man in the locker room!

No, the puppeteer did that.

Still. Gordon thinks he worked at Black Mesa before all this. He probably knew the others before, right? Maybe? Even if he didn't, going through all this had certainly made them friends, he supposed. Could Gordon consider the assembled group his friends? Or were they only friends with the puppetmaster pulling his strings?

Gordon wasn't sure, but one thing he did know is that he did _not_ want to think about that. At least not now.)

After his body told some horrible facsimile of a bedtime story to the doctor in question, murdered a skeleton none of the others seemed to see and chased down some formally clad man who had seemed to stare straight through him, Gordon was finally allowed to rest. Just like before, the void was quick to claim him, allowing him no respite from the events of the day before plunging Gordon headfirst into the agonizing pain and emptiness, leaving the man helpless and alone.

* * *

This isn't right.

That was the only thought Gordon had as he was walked into the shady medkit room. He wasn't sure why he was so on edge, but every cell in his body was screaming to _not go into that room._

Unfortunately, Gordon had no say in the matter.

The last thing Gordon remembers seeing before darkness clouded his senses was Benrey's empty stare, and Gordon swears he saw a hint of regret behind the guard's typically emotionless eyes before it all went black.

The puppeteer was confused. They quickly vocalized as much, opting to shout before thinking as usual. Before Gordon could find it in himself to be frustrated by the obnoxious behavior, however, a sharp pain in his gut knocked all other thoughts from his mind.

Gordon heard cries from his companions, a mixture of triumph and confusion, but all he could focus on was the flurry of punches and kicks battering his already-bruised body. His controller let out quiet, unfeeling cries, like an underpaid actor in a low budget movie, but didn't move an inch to defend itself, to defend _him._

The blows kept coming, knocking his body to its knees, and Gordon felt his eyes well up with tears, tears that went unshed, that always went unshed, that maybe always would. His limbs ached, his body _burned,_ and the sick fucker in control of it did _nothing,_ nothing but cry out in a piss-poor imitation of the agony consuming Gordon's every thought.

It hurts, it hurts, it _hurts,_ his mind chanted, unable to focus on anything but the pain. He wanted to yell, to scream, to beg their friends to come to their aid, to beg his assailants to _please, please stop,_ but the normally boisterous parasite said nothing.

A loud, metallic swipe of noise cut through Gordon's spiraling thoughts. He felt something pin down his arm, something heavy, and before he could process the new sensation his entire being erupted into agony.

At first, the sound was the worst of it. A harsh, metallic screeching noise, as his sadistic attackers cut through the suit designed to withstand a nuclear blast with a mere pocket knife. The noise was unbearable, or so Gordon believed.

Then the blade made contact with skin, and Gordon _screamed._

Or, rather, his body did. Very briefly, and almost as if they were bored. As if they were acting. Of course, Gordon hardly noticed this in the moment, too caught up in the unmitigated feeling of _wrong_ as metal cut through skin and muscle and _bone, oh god —_

The worst of it was how helpless he was. If he were in control, at least he could thrash, could kick and bite and scream. At least Gordon would be able to express the agony consuming him, if not escape it altogether.

As it stood, all he could do was lie there. Lie silent and still, unmoving, soundless. He faintly heard the shocked cries of the others, but they passed in one ear and out the other. All he knew was pain, the fire coursing through his very being as his arm squelched and snapped and blood gushed forth from the wound.

Gordon wasn't sure when he fell unconscious, the unending blackness filled with the same torture and torment as his waking life. It was never ending, it was inescapable, but at least in the solace of his unconscious mind Gordon could sob freely and loudly.

* * *

This period of unconsciousness was much shorter than the previous two had been. It felt like it had only been a few minutes since he'd first passed out, and he was abruptly thrown headfirst back into the living hell he'd been experiencing.

Gordon was disappointed to find that the malevolent god holding his body hostage was still in control when he woke up, and it seemed they were just as bad of an actor as they had been during the attack. The puppeteer didn't let Gordon rest for even a moment, forcing his exhausted body to its feet and continuing forward. All while chattering endlessly. Of course. Gordon isn't sure why he thought anything would change.

One thing that _was_ different was the fountain of blood where his right hand used to be. The pain was absolutely unbearable; if his body wasn't so determined to keep charging forward to his own detriment Gordon doesn't think he'd even be able to _move._ And with how much blood he was losing, Gordon wouldn't be surprised if he lost consciousness again sometime soon.

If that happened, would this intruder still be able to operate his body? Would he remain their puppet, even if he died? The thought was sickening to Gordon, but with nothing else to distract him from the unrelenting agony from his arm he welcomed the existential crisis with open arms.

Well, open arm, Gordon thought.

The joke would probably be funnier if he wasn't being forced to climb a ladder while bleeding out from his dismembered wrist.

* * *

Gordon couldn't even muster up the energy to roll his eyes at the exaggerated blubbering of his body's pilot, too exhausted to even process the events that had just occurred. After finding Tommy, Gordon had felt a bit safer, knowing that he wouldn't be forced to engage in combat with alien monstrosities while so unwell. The other man was more than capable of fending for himself, and his puppeteer thankfully hadn't been insufferable enough to turn him against Gordon.

Maybe the others, but at least not Tommy.

Yet.

Forcing that thought out of his mind, Gordon turned his attention back to the present,his body finally staggering to its feet. The exaggerated swaying was a bit much, but at least they were moving. Why he thought that was a good thing, Gordon wasn't sure.

At this point, he was honestly just waiting for a miracle.

He didn't have any other options.

* * *

_" **Every time you go to sleep I can feel my body TORN apart… ATOM by ATOM…** "_

Gordon's body locked up at Coomer's words, but his mind was going into overdrive if anything. The memory of ripping and tearing, being separated into nothingness each and every single night came rushing to the forefront of his mind… the similarity was uncanny.

Did Coomer know? Was Coomer like him? The scientist seemed to be fully in control now, but Gordon remembered how he himself had managed to claim control over his body when he'd been reminded of his son. Was it possible that Coomer was in the same situation as Gordon was?

Was it possible that Gordon really _wasn’t_ alone?

His thoughts were racing, spiraling rapidly out of control as Coomer continued to talk. His mouth wasn't moving, but the voice Gordon heard was undeniably the old man; his controller seemed to be freaked about by that, for some reason. Getting his arm cut off was hardly anything, but being confronted with a reminder of their own actions was world changing.

Typical.

As usual, Gordon was helpless to stop himself from slapping his friend across the face, the hijacker shouting at the man to 'get out of his head.' Really? _Really?_ Gordon wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry at that. The monster that stole his body — his _voice_ — from him was telling _Coomer_ to get out of his head.

If he had control over his body, Gordon wouldn't hesitate to punch himself for that one.

…If this creature could even feel pain, that is. The overwhelming pulses of red-hot agony from his right arm led Gordon to believe that wasn't the case, seeing as the puppetmaster continued to wave it around carelessly.

As his body reconciled with Dr. Coomer, sitting in the grimy hallway and waving his bleeding stump around like the slightest movement didn't send spikes of pain through Gordon's body, Gordon clung to the fantasy of revenge as tightly as he could. If Coomer knew — if he was like Gordon was — then Gordon needed to be more alert, more watchful over what could be his only ally in this fight.

They might be able to fight back.

When the puppetmaster spoke about strangling Bubby with Dr. Coomer's help, Gordon let himself imagine that it was the undefined face of his hijacker beneath their hands, the idea only a small comfort to his pain-addled mind.

* * *

As Gordon watched himself argue with Bubby, — the old man pounding on the thick plexiglass of his prison as he shouted and fought, — he couldn’t help but sympathize with the other scientist.

Sure, according to whatever narrative the puppeteer was currently complaining about Bubby was partially responsible for the wound dripping blood over the entire floor, but Gordon found he didn’t blame Bubby for his suffering as much as he blamed the demon hijacking his life. Maybe it was foolish or selfish of him — maybe Gordon was just bitter.

Either way, Gordon felt an almost suffocating surge of empathy at the fear and discomfort displayed by the trapped scientist.

It was startlingly similar, in all honesty. Being trapped, helpless, unable to take agency in your own life because of a frustratingly transparent barrier. Not being able to see the force controlling you, but being fully aware of its omnipresence.

His body pressed the button to release the older man from his captivity, and Gordon wished that his confines were as tangible as Bubby’s, if only so he could have something to take his anger out on.

* * *

Gordon was so wrapped up in his mounting anxiety that he almost didn’t notice Benrey’s confusion as the others settled down for the night.

The guard had been acting strange ever since they’d reunited with the group, seeming more distracted and almost openly hostile when they did interact with Gordon. Of course, Gordon was even more aggressive due to whatever narrative the being controlling Gordon had constructed, but Benrey seemed less receptive to the interactions than he had been before.

As the group laid down in anticipation of the unrelenting nightmare of the void of unconsciousness, Gordon tried to prepare himself for the agony he knew was imminent. He knew that once all of the others had laid down the void would come for him, but the dread he felt was soon pushed aside when Benrey shot to their feet, eyes wide as they looked around the room.

Gordon heard himself say something to the guard, and he was startled by the sheer confusion on Benrey’s typically inexpressive face as they took in their surroundings.

"hey, where’d your…" Benrey began, soon trailing off as they continued to glance around worriedly. Gordon felt his brow furrow, and for once he didn’t disagree with the inquiry that was forced out of his mouth in response to Benrey’s behavior.

"why are we here?"

Gordon was stunned, his controller similarly surprised, judging from their uncharacteristic silence. Benrey seemed _genuinely concerned,_ and their voice sounded more sincere than Gordon could ever remember hearing it. Gordon was so caught off guard that he couldn’t even think of what questions he should be asking, his thoughts just as silent as his puppeteer was.

Later on, after being plunged into the dark, endless void — torn apart _atom by atom,_ as Coomer had put it — Gordon would find himself unable to get Benrey’s genuine concern out of his mind. The guard had seemed so _sincere_ — and after a day of being so distant from everyone, the behavior was made even more confusing.

Benrey had never been very transparent when it came to anything, really, and Gordon had gotten used to that over the past few days. Still, the guard clearly knew much more than they let on, and the genuine confusion from them once that weird skeleton had collapsed only added to the mystery surrounding them.

As Gordon waited for the void to release him, time blending together into a haze of nothing, Benrey’s final question hung in his mind, the genuine sincerity of the guard’s tone echoing around in the stifling silence.

"what happened to your arm?"


	3. Swallow Ichor

Gordon wouldn’t call any part of the events of the last few days "normal." Not by any sense of the word. Having your body hijacked by some strange, omnipotent, god-powered entity and being forced to barrel through armies of aliens and military forces alike with a terrifying bloodlust, all while being followed around by a posse of reckless, violent scientists and a _decidedly_ inhuman security guard — it sounds even stranger when he lays it out like that — is _not_ within the realm of normality, Gordon's sure.

Still, he'd gotten somewhat used to the sheer abnormality of the past few days. It was still horrible, it still pained him every time more blood was spilled by his hands, but Gordon found he wasn’t as surprised by the neverending nightmares he was forced through, for better or for worse.

Having said that, these past few hours have been _excessively **ab** normal,_ even by the new, warped standards Gordon's been operating from.

The events of the day were noticeably different from the past few, even from the very start. Come "morning," Gordon was torn out of the safety of the dreamless void and, instead of being faced with more eldritch horrors in the depths of Black Mesa, Gordon found himself thrust into a disconcerting imitation of his world, every surface softer and rounder than he was used to. His body felt different; the weight of the HEV suit was gone, replaced with a strange nothingness, and Gordon felt more agile and light than he could ever remember being, even as a child.

The puppeteer was still in control and didn’t seem to be concerned by the sudden, drastic reality shift, chattering to themself just as they always did as they raced forward as if they knew what awaited. Gordon was forced ahead, bludgeoning strange entities to a supposed "death," until Dr. Coomer stepped out of a doorway, blocking the path ahead.

Coomer was just as angular as Gordon remembered, looking wildly out of place in this foreign landscape, and Gordon felt fear grip him like a vice as the old man opened his mouth to let out a series of strange sounds, somehow translated into language by some distant part of his brain.

"None of this is real, is it?"

Gordon wasn’t given any time to process the jarring question sprinkled in between the nightmarescape-esque experience, as he was quickly dropped back into the world he was used to, the smell of blood and smoke assaulting him along with an overwhelming brightness and the sound of fluorescent lights.

Things only got weirder from there. Before he could even begin to grapple with whatever _that_ was, he was arguing with a scientist about potions and _silly straws,_ of all things, arm still bleeding just as profusely as it had been before. He was piloted over to an old, rusted oil drum, shouting something about potions and brown, and Gordon’s vision went dark as he felt thick, warm liquid rush down his throat, the taste indescribable.

And then there was a minigun on his arm.

And he was firing the minigun.

On his arm.

As his body ranted about buttons and fingernails, the words some sick facsimile of scientific language, Gordon felt his eyes well up with tears. He could feel every single shot from the unnatural protrusion, the recoil vibrating up what remained of his arm and shaking his entire skeletal structure.

The deafening sound of a minigun firing _directly next to his head_ was far outshined by the all-encompassing agony that came with firing the bullets — fingernails? — directly from his severed wrist, and Gordon couldn’t focus on anything else whenever the gun was fired. The remainder of the journey was dotted with brief periods of non-lucidity, more severe and painful than Gordon was used to.

At the very least he wasn’t lucid for the majority of the times his arm was unloaded directly into Benrey’s face, and Gordon was grateful he didn’t have to contend with the aching sadness caused by that.

* * *

The crunching, fleshy sound of his arm colliding with Benrey's face was far overshadowed by the painful feeling of the metal tube pushing against the tender stump of Gordon's arm. His body let out a sick, sadistic laugh, marveling as the security guard went flying across the room, blood splattering over the floor and walls, and Gordon felt his stomach turn at his forced expression of twisted joy.

Gordon wanted to scream as his body continued to assault Benrey, cackling joyfully as they were catapulted around, blood flying everywhere. Benrey hardly reacted to the repeated attacks, their expression neutral as ever as they continued to be pummeled by Gordon's unnatural appendage.

The conflict was abruptly halted when Benrey opened their mouth wide, wispy lights of a striking dark blue color spilling out and wrapping around Gordon's body. Gordon was thankful for the interruption, although he couldn't help but feel an uncomfortable twist in his gut at the hopeless, angst-filled look in Benrey's eyes as they sang.

"That's a lotta blue," Tommy said, frowning at the monochromatic light display across the room as the puppeteer demanded a translation. Before he could say anything, though, Benrey yelled directly next to Gordon's head, his body whipping around to face them with a frustrated glare.

"it means I HATE YOOU," they shouted, voice monotone and disinterested. Gordon watched as his body quickly responded with the expected display of violence, battering Benrey with his metallic arm and unloading a full round into their face.

Even when his body moved on, running off down the hallway, Gordon couldn't help but notice the subtly heartbroken look hidden beneath the shadow of Benrey's helmet, a trail of dark blue sweet voice following them around.

* * *

_"Doctor Freeman…"_

If anything, Gordon was thankful for the arrival of the disembodied voice — at least he knew what to expect from the strange, suit-wearing man. After the confusing, unending nightmare of the past day, Gordon was just grateful for any shred of familiarity he could scrounge up in this nightmarish place.

Even if said familiarity was ultimately still foreign and unwelcome.

Vision tinted blue, Gordon all but zoned out as his body conversed with the gaunt businessman, relishing in the rare, fleeting downtime. Of course, because nothing could have even the smallest _shred_ of normalcy today, the brief moment of silence was broken as a familiar blue figure shambled past Gordon’s immobile body.

"do you have — you have credentials?"

Both the strange visitor and the creature controlling Gordon seemed completely caught off guard by Benrey’s appearance, and Gordon could see why. He’s not sure what it was, but Benrey seemed absolutely _enraged,_ and the air around the security guard seemed to be warping and changing, shimmering with heat and some strange power.

Gordon wasn’t sure how he could tell Benrey was pissed; the guard’s face and tone was as neutral as ever as he rambled about Playstation+ and credentials. There was just something Gordon could… _feel_ from them, their anger coming across clearly.

Somehow.

The briefcase-toting man was quick to run off after Benrey began harassing him, leaving without even rambling about whatever cryptic nonsense he intended to say this time. Gordon was frustrated — but ultimately not very surprised — when he started attacking Benrey and shouting about them to the others, but the security guard just held Gordon’s gaze, a complex mix of emotions dancing behind their eyes as they insisted — _begged_ the group not to proceed.

Of course, the puppeteer didn’t back down, charging ahead blindly towards the intimidating portal room. Gordon could _feel_ the power coming off of the machine in waves, and that combined with the increasingly _frantic_ objections from Benrey only made Gordon feel more uneasy about whatever lay beyond.

The last thing Gordon saw before a sickeningly familiar burst of green light overtook his vision, was Benrey staring at him from across the room, eyes wide with concern.

* * *

"yo."

For once, Gordon found himself grateful that he wasn’t in control of his own body, because he’s sure that he wouldn’t even be able to stay standing if he was. Hovering in the air before them was Benrey, the guard impossibly large and looking even more _off_ than they did back in Black Mesa. Their arms hung limply at their sides, and their bored expression had a slight hint of sadness to it as they stared down at Gordon.

"i been tellin you to go back — i don’t know, man — you’re not listenin’ to me," the guard said, words slurring together as they rambled. Gordon stared up at their gaping maw, teeth impossibly sharp and impossibly many. "it kinda hurts."

Gordon watched helplessly as he continued to antagonize Benrey, murmuring to Coomer and Tommy while the guard watched the group almost… mournfully. Why did they seem so sad?

And why was Gordon so bothered by it?

"wanna kiss?" Benrey asked, his mouth splitting into a terrifying grin. Their teeth appeared almost endless in number, and the sharp and intimidating appearance of them almost distracted from the melancholy tone of their supposedly teasing question.

It was familiar, to Gordon, that question, though he had no idea why.

"yo come back… man…" Gordon was thankful that his body deigned Benrey’s mournful objection important enough to acknowledge, pausing in its escape to face the nonhuman beast once more.

"we used to be great friends…" Benrey rambled, eyes sad and pleading, "‘member those days…? we — play — where we played… in the sand? and in the mud? we were playin’ in the mud, ALL the time…"

Gordon’s body was quick to dismiss the guard’s claims, shouting about fake, implanted memories and turning to flee once more. Benrey sounded so sad, so sincere, though, that Gordon couldn’t bring himself to just ignore them, especially considering the disconcerting familiarity of the memories they described. Why could Gordon almost remember the days the guard was rambling about?

Why did Gordon believe the guard without question?

His body flung itself off of the platform he stood on just as Benrey made to approach, barking orders to the others as Benrey called after them with a regretful tone.

"great friend."

* * *

Eyes welling up with tears of pain, Gordon found himself straining to scream for the umpteenth time as his arm erupted in white-hot agony. He heard shouting at the edge of his consciousness, but his every thought was focused on the burning, searing heat of the minigun that was shoddily attached to his stump.

Glancing at the weapon revealed that the metal had turned a glowing red color, visibly smoking as it fired at a scarily heightened rate. The horrifying alien creature was quick to retreat in the face of the unending barrage of gunfire, but Gordon hardly noticed until his arm was no longer consumed in smoldering flames.

Of course, his body was quick to retreat once more, shouting insults over his shoulder at Benrey, and every slight movement made Gordon feel like his arm was encased in molten rock, the universe finding new ways to torment him at every turn.

Something told Gordon that the end of this personal hell was fast approaching, but he had a feeling that only meant that the torment was only beginning.

Whatever that was supposed to mean.

* * *

"Gordon, do you like video games?"

If Gordon had been in control of his body, he’s sure he would’ve frozen in place. His mind immediately went back to the doctor’s strange demeanor after jumping the cliff back in Black Mesa, of the way he’d behaved after the horrible attack from the clones. Coomer’s tone was identical to how Gordon remembered it being then — the melancholy seriousness a stark juxtaposition to his usual cheery disposition.

Confused, Gordon listened as he and Coomer talked about video games, the old man rambling fondly about "Super Punch-Out!!™" for the Super Nintendo Entertainment System™ while his captor chattered about who-knows-what. Gordon didn’t particularly care either way; he was too focused on the doctor’s faraway gaze, staring off into the middle distance beyond Gordon’s shoulders.

He listened silently, patiently, unsure what Coomer was getting at but content to watch himself ramble about games with the man, until Coomer sighed, and Gordon’s blood ran cold.

"Gordon?" Coomer’s voice sounded even more resigned and hopeless, and Gordon couldn’t help the rising feeling of dread he felt. "If you woke up one day, and you realized everything around you was a lie… was FAKE… what would you do?"

Coomer stared at Gordon with clear exhaustion, crows feet pinched in sad resignation. Gordon wanted to cry, wanted to lie down and sleep forever, and the doctor’s cryptic hopelessness only intensified his own misery. The puppeteer didn’t respond to Coomer, turning away in silence, instead just staring up at the intimidating structure before them.

"Gordon," Coomer said from behind him, "I don’t think there’s any turning back from this point." As he charged forward into the glowing red light, vision fading to black as he entered the portal, the voice of Dr. Coomer rang in his head, one final sentence ushering in what Gordon knew to be the end.

"Let’s give them a good show!"

_Yeah,_ Gordon thought as he waited for the world to load around him, _let’s give them a show indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an avalanche of blue means "i miss the old you"


	4. Iodine Words

"hey."

Thick, viscous liquid lapped at Gordon’s thighs, staining the legs of the HEV suit a bloody red. Gordon watched as Benrey loomed over the group, rambling nonsensically while he argued fruitlessly with the clearly inhuman being.

Gordon knew he’d be trembling if his body was his own — Benrey’s form appeared to be warping and shifting as the guard got more and more worked up. Eyes began to sprout across Benrey’s morphing body, all glaring down at Gordon as the creature ranted, body deteriorating by the second. The same thick fluid leaked from their eyes and mouth — mouths, maw after gaping maw splitting the guard’s ashy skin into sharp, sadistic smiles — and Gordon could hear the distant cracking of bone and snapping of tendons as Benrey's body broke and rearranged itself countless times in a row.

Gordon’s head began to pound simply from looking upon the being before him, the eldritch monstrosity far beyond his comprehension.

"so i didn’t —" Benrey muttered, voice echoing and layering over itself, "— i didn’t have a big plan!" The liquid — tears — flowing from their endless assortment of eyes shifted in hue, mixing and blending in a psychedelic show of reds and blues. Gordon heard Tommy mutter something under his breath behind him — _red to blue, I don’t wanna hurt you,_ — and felt his stomach twist with a mix of sympathy and deep, primal fear.

"i was ‘sposed to be nice!" Benrey cried, their voice booming and nearly incomprehensible. Gordon isn’t sure how he managed to decipher the words beneath the eldritch buzzing sound that now filled the fleshy walls of the alien chamber, but for some reason Benrey's distorted ranting was clear as a bell. "but you forced me to be BAAAAAD so i gonna be baaaad. friend."

Gordon wanted to scream as his body chuckled in response to Benrey’s misery, his head aching with a pain worse than anything Gordon could remember feeling over the past few days. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and Gordon was overcome with a strong desire to comfort the alien beast as Benrey grew and swelled in an incomprehensible display of raw, otherworldly power. Gordon felt his arm begin to burn as his body aimed the minigun at Benrey — at his _companion,_ his _friend._

Benrey roared, the sound filled with pain and frustration, and the chamber erupted into chaos as his weapon opened fire.

* * *

"Gordon."

Turning to face Coomer, Gordon felt strangely calm given the chaos surrounding them on all sides. The second this passport was destroyed, Gordon was prepared to be thrust back into the heat of battle, forced to shoot at Benrey as the guard begged him to stop. Despite the horror and dread coating his tongue, Gordon’s mind was nearly blank, having reached a numbing clarity about the entire situation.

"None of this is real, is it…?"

Coomer’s sounded just as calm as Gordon felt, voice laced with a melancholy resignation Gordon had grown used to. His brows were furrowed, and the other two members of their team looked on sadly, awaiting Gordon’s response. As Gordon felt his body prepare to respond, he let his eyes slip shut, mouth moving of his own accord.

"No."

The group turned to destroy the oversized passport, the ensuing tense silence speaking more than further words possibly could.

* * *

"He- He- He- He- He- He-"

Gordon could feel his own fear and desperation mixing with that of the creature in his head, both of them drowning in anxiety and adrenaline. Benrey was clawing at the locker room door, horrible, inhuman sounds echoing down the hallway as the guard tried in vain to get to Gordon.

Staring at Coomer's blank, fearful stare, Gordon begged every god that existed to please, _please_ just do this _one thing_ for him, it's the least they can do after dragging him through hell over the past few days, just _please_ don't strand him here, unable to move even as Benrey rips him apart limb from immobile limb —

" **I remember.** "

Watching himself trail after Coomer, rambling anxiously as he'd been doing so often lately, Gordon felt like he was floating in nothingness, his mind shockingly clear. He knew this was it — this is the end of it all.

Green light emanated from the portal in front of him, and Gordon sighed as he took a few hesitant steps forward. His body glanced back at Benrey, who was staring sadly at him through the locker room door, a melancholy grin on their beaten and bloody face.

"See ya back home," Gordon said, body and mind working in tandem. Stepping through the portal, Gordon let out a shaky exhale of breath, his hands trembling of their own accord.

"fuck you, bro."

* * *

The noise and light was overwhelming, Benrey's cries of pain mixing with the crash of gunfire and the haunting howls of skeletal sweet voice. Gordon's throat was dry and cracked, and his every muscle throbbed in an unrelenting agony.

Benrey continued to shout and protest, their regret apparent to the very end. Gordon felt tears flow freely down his face, and he could feel bits of the puppetmaster's control wavering, the faint taste of independence tantalizingly close, just inches away from his grasp.

As he brought his mutated arm down on Benrey's vulnerable form, carving a grotesque slice through Benrey's chest, Gordon made eye contact with them one final time, fearful yellow locking with anguished green.

The haunting chamber was filled with otherworldly light, echoing with the screams of Benrey and his skeletal entourage as the blinding aura consumed him.

"DON'T FUCK WITH THE SCIENCE TEAM!!!" Dr. Coomer bellowed from somewhere behind Gordon, his final battle cry hanging heavy in the air.

Gordon felt himself collapse to the ground just as the entire world faded to a blinding, endless white.

* * *

The cheap fluorescent lighting hummed overhead, buzzing around in Gordon's skull. His friends milled around the Chuck E. Cheese, shouting and dancing and stuffing cheap pizza into their mouths by the handful.

Straining his eyes, Gordon was barely able to catch a glimpse of a skeletal figure out of the corner of his eye, just out of view. His entire body ached, his head still hurt, and the smell and sounds of the Chuck. E Cheese made him feel painfully nauseous.

Swallowing dryly, Gordon blinked purposefully, his limbs heavy and weighed down. Everything hurt, and he was so, so tired… he didn't even have the support of whatever had stolen his life holding him up anymore.

Honestly, Gordon just wanted to fall over and sleep for the rest of his life… but Tommy's father had a very purposeful stare as he watched him from across the room. Gordon knew what that glare meant.

So, he sat, and he smiled weakly as the others laughed and played, and he tried not to break down completely.

He'd survived the resonance cascade. He'd made it through hell and back — _alive!_ He'd dealt with being paraded around an active warzone like a sick, sentient puppet, and through all of that he was _still here._

He can handle a measly birthday party.

The older Coolatta continued to watch him from across the room, and Gordon gave him another half hearted smile, vision blurring at the edges as the HEV suit weighed painfully on his chest.

He _hopes_ he can handle a birthday party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heehoo.....
> 
> even though this is the end of the series, it is Not the end of this fic! in fact, this is just the beginning of the au... stay tuned >:3


End file.
